


United, Divided: The War of Telerin Aggression

by eris_of_imladris



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But not a songfic, Civil War, First Kinslaying (Tolkien), Multiple Voices, Song Lyrics, so this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-27 13:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18195023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: The First Kinslaying and its aftermath told by allies, enemies, and the ones they left behind.Written for B2MEM 2019 with the prompts: “the War of Telerin Aggression,” battered but not broken (Fëanorians), crippled by worry, bruise (purple), royal (purple), Fëanor was framed.





	1. Just Before The Battle, Mother

_Just before the battle, mother,  
I am thinking most of you,  
While upon the field we're watching  
With the enemy in view._

Nerdanel is restless the night before the slaughter.

She doesn’t even know why. She’s told herself too many times that she won’t pace around the empty house, looking down the dark corridors as if she’d find anything but stale air. And yet, her hands run along the walls, she breathes the air that still smells like home even after nothing is the same anymore.

She has no idea where her family is now, and she wonders if they think of her at all. If they regret leaving her behind on their journey to glory. She heard Fëanáro’s speech in the square, surely everyone did, when everything seemed so clear. The whole world had shifted from light to dark in an instant, and suddenly, his was the only fire for their people to follow.

But she’d seen the other side too, the people who looked not to Fëanáro but Nolofinwë. The ones who dared to whisper, to wonder aloud if the Valar should police their own. She knew Fëanáro’s answer before he spoke it, even before she felt the spike of anger crashing through the wall of grief he’d built so hastily yet solidly.

The enemy changed far too quickly, then. Fëanáro turned from the darkness and challenged what little light remained, and worst of all, he took her lights, after claiming to love her for so many years. She yearns for them, her soul cleaves to them, even though she does not know where they lay their heads at night.

She wonders how far they’ve gotten, if they’re thinking of her on the road. Each said goodbye to her one by one. Maitimo, too loyal for his own good, was first in this as he was in his birth, and she wonders if the world will ever see beauty like his again. Makalaurë, who will sing of darkness and war or perhaps never again. Tyelkormo, too proud. Carnistir, trying his hardest. Curufinwë, too eager to please, a puppy for whom someone has thrown a long-promised stick. All the way to the twins, who looked like they might stay, if they weren’t entangled in some oath of glory that turns the noblest of motives into the filthiest of wars.

_Oh, I long to see you, mother,  
And the loving ones at home,  
But I'll never leave our banner,  
Till in honor I can come._

She stays silent sometimes during the long night. When the silence becomes too pressing, she curses her husband’s damned pride and fights the urge to scream into the empty halls. They should not be filled with laughter, no, but they could be filled with the soft sounds of kindness, with the way he always leaned his head on hers when something pained his heart too deeply for words. She was not there when he found Finwë’s body, but she hears he cradled his father like a child, and the whole host fell silent in the mourning. They stood together, united in this as they seemed to be when they marched away.

But she knows better. How can unity form around a shattered soul? If Fëanáro cannot even see the enemy in front of him, if he cannot acknowledge that until the moment Finwë died he himself was the enemy of peace in Valinor, what hope does he have of the victory he desires? He burns too bright, but it’s not the kind of fire that can change this darkness. No fire birthed of darkness can glow with light.

And her boys, oh, they burn like firebrands, and no matter how kind or calm they are, they cannot ignore how their mighty father has fallen. Worst, she knows that if she heard her Fëanáro wailing his grief, if her eyes knew what her soul’s bond felt as it writhed inside her chest, she might have gone with him. That, she will admit to no one, not after word reaches her of what happened on that night after she collapses into her cold and lonely bed.

When word reaches her of the deeds of her husband, her Fëanáro who made her burst with joy every day of their lives together until he drew that sword, her Fëanáro who begged her to come even as she begged him to leave her a son, even just one, even if she was willing to leave the other six behind, even as she pictures them as the smallest children who can do no harm to an animal, let alone a person, who must even now be weeping for their innocence just as she weeps for them instead of the victims she should be crying for -

When she imagines them regretting their deeds, huddled together, drawing strength from the warmth of their living bodies against the backdrop of the Teleri dead, she feels like her own heart is against her. She still loves him, loves all of them, even when she hears the tale of that night. Even when she knows that, as she paced through her cold and empty home, her sons drew their swords and stained their souls in their father’s color. When her traitor’s heart wishes to have saved even one son, even if the other six stay fallen. For now she knows that she will never see any of them again, not until the world breaks apart. Even with Morgoth reigning in terror, her husband, her sons, they are the evil ones.

For all her wisdom, she is dumbstruck. For all her strength, she is pitiful, and for all her courage to stay behind, she stays alone, trapped by the stares and whispers and the crushing guilt as she imagines Alqualondë’s waters running with her family’s red.

For the love she still bears her family, she becomes the enemy.

_Farewell, mother, you may never  
Press me to your heart again,  
But, oh, you'll not forget me, mother,  
If I'm numbered with the slain._


	2. The First Gun Is Fired

_The first gun is fired!  
Its echoes thrill the land,  
And the bounding hearts of the patriot throng,  
Now firmly take their stand._

In the beginning, Nelyo truly believes.

HIs father came back from Olwë in a seething rage, no longer trying to hide his thoughts behind courtesy. He has come for war, he says as he unsheathes his sword. And his sons, his people, are angry too. Why, he wonders, can the elves not band together for the common foe that somehow only Fëanáro’s kin can see? His father’s speech ignited fire in the minds of too few. 

Every fighter must do his best, even though nobody has any experience. There has never been a war like this, elves against the Valar, and there has never been a battle like this, elves against other elves. Nelyo has no idea what was said in the meeting, between the two leaders who now stand at odds. All he knows is the tension in his father’s body that explodes in a roar, and somewhere, the first blow is thrown, the first scream echoes, the first battle begins.

He makes his way through the streets, pushing past the shouts and the smoke. He doesn’t know who is screaming anymore. His kin? Their attackers? The innocents who surely must be there and choose to not lift their arms in war, who would give the boats in exchange for their lives?

(Would Fëanáro have given the silmarils for his father’s life? He wonders.)

He must be Nelyo today, he knows as he runs into a silver-haired elf who is too close of a range to use his bow. Unbidden, he thinks of Tyelkormo learning the bow, his clumsy steps, and even though the face is wrong the hair is right, and for one terrible moment he fears he is striking his own brother down. And then he reminds himself to stop thinking. This is war. He lifts his sword.

_We will bow no more to the tyrant few,  
Who scorn our long forbearing,  
But with Columbia's stars and stripes  
We'll quench their trait'rous daring._

The dead elf with the silver hair returns to Nelyo when he holds the torch aloft on the shores of Endorë. He watches the wisps of smoke float away, somehow more lifeless than the form of his first kill upon the ground. He’d stopped to watch the blood run, a thousand emotions screeching through his head at once.

And then he’d fought on, found more Teleri, got caught in the frenzy and done his part for his people. Made his father proud, even if the thought of how he did it was sickening.

Now, he cannot finish the job. Things have gone too far. His thoughts catch up with him as he is now supposed to hurl this torch against his side’s ships, stopping his own side from being whole. Driving away his own family, albeit estranged for longer than he has been alive. His uncle Nolofinwë, whose timely arrival prevented the Noldor from ending as corpses in the bay. Corpses like the one he’d fought.

He remembers the boy’s eyes, the first one who he’d killed. He looked so scared, like he’d have given anything to stop. And then, like Nelyo, he hardened his resolve. He reached for a dagger, but Nelyo was quicker. His blood ran down the streets where he might have lived, played, dreamed.

No one else seems to be thinking of the Teleri, too many slain by their swords. They are an easy enemy to adopt. And now, no one questions Fëanáro’s word that Nolofinwë’s host is a threat, another enemy between them and the only one who should matter. They are all caught up in the frenzy of war, and Nelyo tries, oh, how he tries to join them. But he cannot.

He is the diplomat, the oldest whose job has been a peacemaker ever since his younger brothers were born. His own family stands together (except for his mother, who he wonders if he will ever see again, or perhaps he will be like the ones he killed in Alqualondë, gone to their families forever), but the Noldor are not just his family, and his people are at war with those who did not start the conflict in the first place. They have forgotten who is truly to blame here, who stole their lights and Lights and lives.

Nelyo stands alone in this belief, even among his own brothers. Now he is the one who has to take a stand, who has to do what matters, by speaking against his own kin. He must be the one to say what surely others are thinking. How can everyone be fine with the deed they do now, as if the strike against the Teleri was not enough? Is everyone still blinded by the smoke and the exhilaration of the fight, his father’s fire that burns so bright it eclipses all that is good?

Nelyo (for so he is named, so he must act in his people’s interest, he must try to be kingly even as his father and Nolofinwë scrabble for their own factions) is overwhelmed, unable to see his lifelong friend as anything but that, and feeling the same about his loving father. The enemy is to the east, why can they not fight together? Why must his family split apart in a breach he knows will never be fixed, in a drastic measure that makes the sword at Nolofinwë’s throat look like child’s play?

When he dares to open his mouth, Fëanáro speaks coldly, not like himself, especially to his firstborn son. There is none of the love of his upbringing, none of the cherished words he has always heard, the kindness he has always known even when he strayed from the path Fëanáro would have chosen for him.

Fëanáro replies like he is the enemy.

_For the arm of freedom is mighty still,  
But strength shall fail us never,  
Its strength shall fail us never,  
That strength we'll give to our righteous cause,  
And our glorious land forever._


	3. The Minstrel Boy

_The minstrel boy to the war is gone;  
In the ranks of death you'll find him;  
His father's sword he has girded on,  
And his wild harp slung behind him._

His song would have been so different if Nolofinwë had not arrived.

Káno would have sung no glory then, no shouts of victory over the quiet, burning city, no rippling sails soaring above the darkened water. None of that would have happened if Nolofinwë, their oldest foe, their newest savior, had not arrived.

He would have sung of loss, of a premature attack born of stubbornness rather than bravery. And yet, he knew where his loyalties lay, in which direction his words must lead. His gift must show the others that his side is right, that his father is the rightful king, that his Oath means more than words spoken into the dark void of sky. And he must also prove this to himself, a far harder task.

His mind returns to the fact that his father was not the one who led them to victory. Káno could see that even as he fought past his foes, trying to ignore the stories they must have lived. They were outnumbered, even in such a small skirmish compared to fighting a Vala, and Nolofinwë was the one who saved them by his timely arrival and tactical skill.

Káno can’t sing of Nolofinwë. To do so would be to succumb to treason, to betray his own father who drew the Noldor together in the first place. His father, the firstborn son, the heir. 

(He feels relief that the only message he is asked for is music. He is grateful to be the second son at a time like this.)

But what should he sing? The Teleri were the enemy of the day, but the war itself is for the Silmarils, for Finwë in the ground, for the grief so deep no melody could touch it. He pictured that when he wavered, the father who he always knew to be the strongest and burn the brightest succumbing just like anyone else.

Káno moves his fingers over the strings of his small instrument, the only one he brought for the journey. He knew people would need music to inspire them, to tell the stories of their great victories and push them onwards. Even their great foe, the world’s enemy, uses music to wage his wars. But what can he sing of something like this, of elven bodies just like Finwë’s that his own sword slew, fires that his own hands set?

_"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,  
"Though all the world betrays thee,  
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,  
One faithful harp shall praise thee!”_

The sound of a sword slicing into flesh is different than it swinging through air or clanging against armor. Arrows soar through the air with their own melodies, and as Káno sat on the ship as it rolled through the waves, he tried to put them to song. But no melody of his youth would fit these times, nothing sung under the Trees could meld with these new sounds. He felt like a child again, trying to learn everything from the beginning, his soul yearning to tell a tale but his fingers helpless in its creation.

He started his song without words, but even that had to change. Fëanáro was everywhere on the ship, his mind and mouth always moving. Káno tried to put the words in, but nothing makes sense until he is on the shores of Endorë with a torch in his hand that makes its own sound as it thuds against the swan-boat he aims for and lights it ablaze.

Part of him wants to speak up like Maitimo, to ask why, even when he sees how his father disapproves and that is against all he has ever done. But killing and burning is also against everything, and this is even against common sense. The song of their victory at Alqualondë needs Nolofinwë, what is he doing?

Káno puts the puzzle together as he stares at his father, manic, wild-eyed, and somehow still looking across the sea with anxiety. He wants to change the age-old story that haunted him since his boyhood, the blessing of his father’s remarriage, the children that followed. He will erase it all in flames, if he has his way. He will have it so the harpers sing of the line of Finwë descending from father to son, with nothing between. No one else who could claim that right from any other angle. Fëanáro is erasing him; he is in a land with no brothers. It has taken the greatest sacrifice to gain all he has ever wanted.

Káno looks to his own brothers. To Maitimo, who has the courage to stand up. To Curufinwë, openly basking in their father’s flame. The others lead their own men, and he loses sight of them as his mind falls to the song again. When he sings of this day, of the battle against the boats, who will be the enemy?

Without knowing that, the melody is disjointed. He cannot ignore his own deeds, even as he thinks of everyone to blame from Nolofinwë to Olwë to Morgoth to Manwë for letting him out, the Valar for not stopping his crusade of darkness…

The songs he presents to his people when they begin their march speak of unequivocal victory, for this is what they need. But when he finds time, when he can steal a moment alone, he begins to scratch notes on the parchment he thankfully remembered to bring. He brings in the discord of the world at peace and the calmness of the world at war, the ten thousand contradictions of his father’s so-called simple war. The word for this comes to him all too easily: Noldolantë.

_Then may he play on his harp in peace,  
In a world such as heaven intended,  
For all the bitterness of man must cease,  
And ev'ry battle must be ended._


	4. When Johnny Comes Marching Home

_When Johnny comes marching home again  
Hurrah! Hurrah!  
We'll give him a hearty welcome then  
Hurrah! Hurrah!_

Arafinwë trudges into Tirion. His body is weary, his mind even more so. He almost lacks the courage to look into Eärwen’s face, knowing that he is a Noldo and he is now the enemy. She meets his eyes, a familiar exhaustion lining her face.

The people who stayed behind are weary too. Afraid, creeping out from their houses and standing together in the dark. There is no sound. No inspiring speeches flow from his lips. He is not Fëanáro, setting their blood aflame as easily as he breathes. Nor is he Nolofinwë, who can come up with the perfect solution in a matter of moments.

No, he is just Arafinwë. Just the third son, the one no one expected to come home at the head of an army. Some see it as cowardice, he can see it in their eyes, and others wonder why he left in the first place. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s the one who came back, no matter what anyone wanted.

He knows his mother will be pleased to see him, but she will also look behind him for her other children who have gone away. Does he have the courage to tell her he failed to bring them back, that Nolofinwë’s loyalty will be the doom of them both? And what can he say in the face of Eärwen’s grief? He cannot tell her of how his army arrived third, after most of the destruction was already done. She would think he was making excuses, and that would make it even worse.

What can he say? Fëanáro has speeches for moments like these, bursting with anger. Nolofinwë’s voice is smooth and calm, even with a sword pressed into his throat. When it is Arafinwë’s turn to speak, there is nothing left to say.

He walks through the streets and crowds fill them. No one speaks, as if the darkness is in their throats and not just their minds and eyes. This is not the homecoming Fëanáro promised, where he would bring the light back to the world himself with the silmarils on his brow, make a new home in lands where their people could reign supreme. There is no joy to be found, only whispers and rumors and doubts.

He is battered and bruised and just wants to go home, even though he knows there is no home anymore, not for him. He mourns for the Trees and his father, for his brothers and their victims as one, as he retreats into silence in the palace of Tirion.

_The men will cheer and the boys will shout  
The ladies they will all turn out  
And we'll all feel gay  
When Johnny comes marching home._

The ceremony is something he never expected to prepare for, and Arafinwë stands alone, solemn and quiet, as he is proclaimed High King of the Noldor.

He never thought of it, never wanted it. He feels more alone than ever within the throng of people. There are some people who try to smile, but the event feels more like a formality than anything else. No one wants to be responsible for the Noldor, not anymore. Not when they are to blame for everything since the Trees were destroyed.

The crown settles strangely on a bruise on his forehead. The gold doesn’t quite hide the purple that blares how wrong this whole situation is. And yet, the Valar sanctify it as if nothing ever happened.

Was this how Fëanáro felt, he wonders, when his father married Indis? Did he feel like he stood there in his finest robes, trying his best to look like the prince he was supposed to be, all the while knowing in his gut that everything was wrong? Did he too feel powerless to speak up, to tell everyone around him that things weren’t supposed to be this way?

Regardless of how he feels, he says the words, he does the ritual, he is king. The one thing both of his older brothers wanted, and now irony reigns supreme. He tries to convince himself that this is not a reign either of them would have wanted, there is no life to the Noldor anymore, and only he is there to lead the lifeless.

He forces himself through a celebration of victory. The tables are lined in royal purple, everything is purple, if only so he can take comfort in the blending of his brothers’ colors. The fiery red of Fëanáro and the subdued blue of Nolofinwë are all that remains of them here, all that will ever come back. He knows this as surely as he knows his own name. Even if they tried, if they had a change of heart like him (which was as unlikely as Morgoth returning the silmarils and Finwë to life in one), they made their choice.

The victory that some of his people remain here feels hollow. He spoke a vow of empty words, for there is nothing to protect, and the food sliding down his throat has no taste. And yet, there is so much to do, more than his father ever had to consider. There are reparations with the Teleri for the stolen boats and lives, rebuilding a home in the darkness, finding a way forward for a lost people.

He supposes this means he needs to be a hero, but who is supposed to be his villain to defeat? Not Morgoth, out of reach, and his brothers can never be his enemies. He is unsure, uncertain, perhaps feeling like his father did when stepping on a clean new shore. He’s no hero, and he’s barely a king. The first battle is done, he thinks as he sinks into a chair, but the war is by no means won.

_Get ready for the Jubilee,  
Hurrah! Hurrah!  
We'll give the hero three times three,  
Hurrah! Hurrah!  
The laurel wreath is ready now  
To place upon his loyal brow  
Hurrah! Hurrah!_


	5. Two Brothers

_Two brothers on their way  
One wore blue  
And one wore grey_

Fëanáro’s forces were losing in Alqualondë when Nolofinwë arrived. He had been too slow. His brother was under attack, and no matter the circumstances of their parting - or their entire lives together - he would rally under Fëanáro’s banner.

Everything seemed so simple. The Teleri seemed to have attacked the Noldor, and as a proud Noldo, a proud son of his father and brother of his brother, Nolofinwë joined the fight. His sword had its first taste of blood, and even as he felt the horror of participating in such a war, he never doubted it. He’d sworn to do anything for his brother, and he wasn’t going back on that now.

It was only when the fires at the port died down and the men began to board the boats that he heard rumors of another story. Of how Fëanáro and Olwë clashed over the boats, of how a Noldo blade was the first drawn and Fëanáro’s temper took hold of him again. He had no trouble believing this.

Nolofinwë felt sick as he looked at the ruined city in an entirely new way. These mariners, the ones he’d cut down even as they strung their bows at him and swore, they were not the aggressors? They were simply defending their home, he realized, and they would have been successful if his own forces hadn’t come in to save the day for Fëanáro.

Paralyzed by the thoughts racing through his head, he barely noticed that it was the men who’d fought longest, Fëanáro’s men, who boarded the boats first. He nodded his head to the plan of sending the boats back without question. He was doomed, that much was certain, and he’d chosen his side. There was no apologizing to the survivors of Alqualondë, no pardon from Olwë or the Valar or anyone else who could clear his conscience. The only thing that shone clear was that he was fighting for his brother, with his brother, and that was something he’d wanted for far too long.

He believed that until a dread plume of flame rose over the horizon.

_One wore blue and one wore grey  
As they marched along the way  
A fife and drum began to play  
All on a beautiful morning_

The dark skies were painted with a sinister light, not the one he’d yearned for since the Trees were bled dry, but the light of treachery was the only thing lighting the darkness. Nolofinwë shook with fear and fury as those around him picked up his name as a cry, calling him king as he never wanted to be, pulling out that primal grief for his father that he’d managed to shove aside during the fight but was now returning in full force.

It was joined by a grief no less severe for his brother. For Fëanáro was still his brother, even after this horrible trick, even after destroying the finest works of the Teleri and the only chance Nolofinwë had at reuniting with him and avenging their father together.

Nolofinwë had done everything right. He bowed to Fëanáro as soon as he heard of their father’s death, shoving any treasonous thoughts of leadership aside even when they were thrown in his face. He fought through other elves - innocent elves - without batting an eye, because his brother, his king, had ordered it. He didn’t even react against him when there was a sword at his throat but now, he had to do something.

He stared at the distant flames until a glimmer of an idea came to him. It was completely foolish. Utterly insane. It went against the meaning of his name as much as anything possibly could. But there was no turning back on what he’d done or who he was.

His speech to his people lacked the fire of Fëanáro’s words. They had enough of that already, of his brother who his people would now hate forever. He spoke to them of rejoining their people, of fighting to avenge his father, as if Fëanáro never existed. He knew that in Fëanáro’s absence, he was the natural leader, and anyone who sought to avoid the burden of making a choice would follow him.

When Arafinwë turned back, he nearly wavered. When many of his people followed suit, he stood by, stoically watching as their forces dwindled even more, as the united Noldor force in battle splintered into three. And when all was said and done, he had a handful of family and a band of other Noldor who had sworn themselves to him, taking their first steps on the crunchy ground.

Nolofinwë had never known cold like this. Their food supplies were finite, their morale low. But if he was going to die, at least he would die as he lived: loyal to his brother, even if no one else felt the same way anymore. He would stand alone as a bastion of support both for his people and his brother, and it would unite them. It would have to work. After a gesture like this, Fëanáro would never be able to reject him anymore.

He spoke of revenge without naming names as the days and months and years rolled on, as their dead went beyond number. He hardened, losing his naivete along with the lives of so many who he’d effectively killed. And he had only one thought of hope as his stomach growled and his body shivered and his hands laid the dead to rest.

At whatever cost, he had to get his enemy, his brother, back.

_Two girls waiting by the railroad track  
For their darlings to come back  
One wore blue, and one wore black_


	6. Two Little Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revolves around the HoME canon of Amrod dying at Losgar. Feel free to skip this chapter if that’s not your thing.

_Two little boys had two little toys  
Each had a wooden horse  
Gaily they played each summer's day  
Warriors both of course_

At Alqualondë, it stopped feeling like a game.

Ambarussa’s swords were slick with blood. They couldn’t meet each other’s eyes as they tried to wipe them clean, to clear the steel and their minds from the battle.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand why they fought. Their grandfather was dead, the world’s light was extinguished, their people were split down the middle, and their foe was an ocean away. They needed boats, and the Teleri had refused to help. If they weren’t going to help, Fëanáro had told them in his tent, they were the enemies of the Noldor and their mission.

And yet, the Teleri were still people. People of all ages, people with interests and loves and hobbies and cares and worries. Just like him and everyone he knew. But the people here show no regret, or if they do, they hide it so deeply that they will soon forget it. They have no qualms about killing those who are just like them, only fighting for a different cause. Husbands, wives, sons, daughters, fathers, mothers.

He thinks of his own mother who he parted with in sorrow, who begged for him to remain by her side. He wishes he could see her face again, but wonders if she would understand the choices he’s made, why his cleaning rag is red, why he did what his father said. Why he raised his sword in anger against other elves, why he stepped onto their boats like he owned them just like Morgoth had done with the silmarils.

The Oath pulled at him like a puppet’s strings, trying to dictate every action he would take for the rest of his life. This was what it would be like, he realized. One battle after another, one life after another taken by his own hands. The part of him that was truly him would have to perish, or else his mind would simply burst from the strain.

He walked down to the boats as swiftly as possible. Moored on the shore, they towered over him with their graceful necks and slender bodies. He boarded one, not the one he’d been on before, but a smaller one more suited to a lone traveler. Could he flee? Could he truly escape what fate set in store for him? He knew his mother-name, much as his father pretended it wasn’t true.

He found his way below decks. Not quite looking for a way to steer, but not avoiding that either. Noting the provisions, eventually finding a thin blanket to wrap himself in. His thoughts whirled at an unimaginable pace as he yearned for the simplicity of Tirion, of the life he knew and loved and lost. Somewhere he didn’t have to question his actions, where everything made sense and his loyalty didn’t suck the blood from his veins.

The rocking of the waves, even just the slightest motions, brought that time to life. The blanket felt like a little remnant of home, something familiar as the whole world changed. The wood beneath his body as he laid down was firm, unyielding. At least one thing still felt the same.

When he wakes, the darkness in the air has somehow gotten darker, and a small distant flame pierces through. A campfire, perhaps, something his family has made. It’s all too fitting, he thinks, for the house of the Spirit of Fire, but the flame of his own spirit isn’t in the fight anymore. He turns around, wraps himself in the blanket, and returns to sleep.

_When we grow up we'll both be soldiers  
And our horses will not be toys  
And I wonder if we'll remember  
When we were two little boys_

Tomorrow’s dawn is blood-red as the ships’ remnants lie on the shore like beached whales. Their bones are charred in the bare light the horizon can muster.

Ambarussa looks over at the blanket he laid out the night before, still as pristine as he’d smoothed it before turning to go to sleep. No one slept there last night; certainly not his brother, who made things messy just by looking at them.

He opens the flap of the tent and starts to walk through the makeshift camp, stepping over bits of wood and sharp pebbles. Some are shiny enough to intrigue his father, but he is not there, nor is his twin. A fragment of worry worms its way into his mind as he scouts the shore, watching everyone go about their ordinary tasks as if they had not destroyed the masterworks of a former ally turned enemy the night before.

There are two redheads on the shore. Two, no more. Counting him.

“Where is my brother?” he asks his father, pushing inside the tent meant for matters of war. Fëanáro stands by a clumsily drawn map as scouts point out what he needs to know, as if anything can even be identified in this darkness.

Fëanáro looks at him strangely, asks if he was not with him. When was the last time he saw him, Ambarussa wonders? They are never far apart.

The answer comes too quickly and tells more than he wishes to know. “I saw him walking towards the boats,” he says, and there is no need to finish the sentence. A sudden panic burns in Fëanáro’s eyes as the others look around in disbelief, as he tries to claw some semblance of sense from the situation and what it has become.

But nothing makes sense to the other half of Ambarussa anymore. His soul lies underneath the sea, and now, he is merely a part of a whole. Is this what Fëanáro feels, living without his father? He tries so hard to find some similarity with someone, anyone, if only to not feel the crushing weight of being the only one in the world to know this pain.

Fëanáro’s answer is simple, like it was before Alqualondë. Simple words of traitors and then he moves on so quickly, still speaking so eloquently, not like when he knelt before his father’s body and the grief sapped all the words from his brilliant mind. Does he feel nothing for his son? Does he even have a heart under the fire of his spirit that now kills his own kin in addition to all they slew at Alqualondë?

Fëanáro finishes the meeting and leaves without a word of apology or shame. Ambarussa does not see Fëanáro close the flap of his sleeping-tent in a rage and grasp it nearly hard enough to yank it out of the ground, kneading the unforgiving fabric, his face flushed bright red as a river of tears flow down his cheeks. He only sees the stern figure retreating with the kindness of the enemy.

_Did you think I would leave you dying  
When there's room on my horse for two  
Climb up here Joe, we'll soon be flying  
I can go just as fast with two  
Did you say Joe I'm all a-tremble  
Perhaps it's the battle's noise  
But I think it's that I remember  
When we were two little boys_


	7. The Vacant Chair

_We shall meet but we shall miss him.  
There will be one vacant chair.  
We shall linger to caress him   
While we breathe our ev'ning prayer._

Findekáno remembered his first steps off the ice since Alqualondë, his first foray onto dry land in what felt like an eternity. After all the years of torment and hardship when he feared he’d never feel warmth of his body or soul again were finally over.

So few made it, and those who did were focused on one thing only: fighting the enemy. But after the ships burned, no one could quite agree who that was. It was clear from the enduring darkness that Morgoth still loomed large, that Fëanáro had not succeeded in his mission. And yet, Findekáno wondered if his people would join that fight or continue the one that had been started against them.

His father had led their people across the ice, stubborn and hard-headed as Fëanáro had been when he chased them away. So many of the Noldor had died, and the ones who lived were unrecognizable. The bliss of Aman was so faded in their minds that sometimes, even to Findekáno, it felt like a tale he’d heard rather than a place he’d seen in the light, smelled in the morning, lived in.

This world past the ice was entirely new, but most of his curiosity was gone. It faded into gnawing hunger, biting cold, the ever-present worry that his feet would slide and he would fall to his death as so many others had. Death was no longer a mystery but a given in such conditions, but the little part of hope that remained inside of him wondered if things would be different now. Surely, enough time had passed that Fëanáro’s temper would have cooled - or, at least, he would need more men for his army, and he would know how to use the land for its resources.

The campsite was identifiable by a flag with the symbol of the house of Fëanáro, and although many people muttered under their breaths, Findekáno felt a surge of hope at the thought that, beyond the blankets and food and water, there might be friends there. His cousins, who provoked memories of kindness and the home he had once known, even though the conflict between their families had seemed insurmountable when they left for these shores.

Makalaurë stood to greet them, a single person facing a horde of starving, furious elves. He stood straight, looking Nolofinwë in the eye, making no move except clasping his empty hands together.

He was unarmed. This boded well for them.

“Where is he?” Nolofinwë asked, as surprised as Findekáno was to see Makalaurë - not the diplomat, not even the heir - greeting them. Was this already an insult? “Where is my brother?”

“The High King is dead,” he said solemnly. “You will have to treat with me.” 

_When one year ago we gathered,  
Joy was in his mild blue eye.  
Now the golden cord is severed,   
And our hopes in ruin lie. _

The news that Fëanáro - his ever-burning uncle, fierce and passionate, angry and vindictive but still somehow family even after all he’d done - was dead burned through their camp. Shouts followed whispers, some exulting in Fëanáro’s death for the suffering of the Helcaraxë, others bemoaning that they’d followed Nolofinwë rather than staying in Tirion, since the war was surely lost.

Findekáno followed Makalaurë and his father to one of the grander tents set up, where a few of his other cousins milled about. He could barely look them in the eye, but he found himself desperately looking at their hair. Silver, black, black, finally a redhead but not the right one, it was one of the twins polishing a small knife with a vacant look in his eyes - and inside, there was a great empty chair, perhaps the best that could be crafted under these conditions. The king’s chair, certainly. Maitimo’s chair.

Until Makalaurë sat in it.

Maitimo was lost, he said. Taken by Morgoth in the early days of the war. Findekáno felt his heart thudding in his chest like a bird bashing itself against a cage. Fëanáro’s fate, he was beginning to understand. But Maitimo? Kind, sweet Maitimo who always had a kind word for him, clever Maitimo who could get out of any situation his father got him into? How could he be gone?

It was little comfort, and perhaps even worse, that he might still live. Morgoth was cruel; that was certain, even if many of the Noldor had more of a problem with Fëanáro. There was no way he was treated as anything other than the lowest dirt, tortured for the sins of his father.

Even the people who wanted Fëanáro dead blanched at this, even if only a little. Some pretended not to care, even as they set up their camp on the other end of the lake and began their new lives, but the thought couldn’t leave Findekáno’s mind. What point was there in living as enemies when a bridge could be built, when both Maitimo and Fëanáro could be avenged by uniting together?

Maitimo had always been the voice of reason, the one who had convinced everyone by his kindness to follow him. He was the missing link, the only one who might bring this mess back to a point where it could be solvable.

He stayed long enough to forget the cold biting at his bones, to occasionally feel full from a meal, to create the weapons he would need in case he was discovered. He told no one of his plans, knowing that both sides would stop him for their own reasons. Nolofinwë needed his heir safe, and Fëanáro’s people needed to not owe them a debt. But none of that mattered to Findekáno. If their places were switched, Maitimo wouldn’t have cared either.

He set out late one night on the swiftest horse he could find, slipping away before anyone would notice he was gone. And when they noticed, would they care? Would Fëanáro’s sons cheer that there was one less heir to the house of Nolofinwë? Would his own house disavow him as a fool or worse, a traitor, for defying Morgoth for the sake of his own kin? If he didn’t come back, that would surely happen, so he would need to be sure to return.

It was time to remind both sides of their true enemy.

_True, they tell us wreaths of glory  
Evermore will deck his brow,  
But this soothes the anguish only,   
Sweeping o'er our heartstrings now._


	8. I’m A Good Old Rebel

_Oh, I'm a good old rebel  
Now that’s just what I am  
For this fair land of freedom  
I do not give a damn_

Fëanáro’s father and the Trees were dead, and there was only one person to blame.

Morgoth loomed incomparably large, but the Teleri would not even surrender the boats. It was preposterous - why will they not band together to defeat the one foe who has stolen everything that has ever mattered?

Olwë taunted him with the silmarils, but even their shine cannot bring back what he has lost. No one understood. No one could ever understand the way he knelt in the dirt by his father’s body, everything forgotten but the dead weight in his hands and the treacherous thump of his heart. The constant drum that reminded him that his life had taken the lives of the people who he loved the most, both of them now, when such a thing had never happened before.

But it could not be his fault. It simply couldn’t be, or he would lose everything of himself kneeling on the ground with his breath and his thoughts coming too fast. Everything he ever fought for and yearned for would bleed out of him and soak into the already-wet ground. It would all have been for nothing. His mother’s death, his father’s sacrifice, everything would be destroyed.

It was Morgoth. He who changed the song of the Valar, which might not have even included death. He who destroyed the Trees and Fëanáro’s lights, the silmarils and his father, cruelly stealing away any chance of hearing the words he’d wanted to hear his whole life. He who craved the light of others so much that he had to ruin it only to take it from them.

Why could no one else see that he was the enemy?

_I'm glad I fought against her  
I only wish we'd won  
I ain't asked any pardon  
For anything I've done_

Alqualondë is on his mind as he tries to keep his eyes open, leaning into the open arms of his eldest son. The fires are so much more dire here, tainted by the ashy landscape and the way his feet slide on rocks no matter where he tries to step. His breaths are too hot, his fingers tremble. Where is the victory he deserves for fighting for what was right?

Everything was so clear in the beginning, back when there was a simple obstacle between him and the boats he needed. Back when a stubborn Olwë was the worst of his troubles, when it was easy to see what the right course of action was. When everyone knew Morgoth was the great foe of their people, when everyone stood together.

He does not want to admit his faults. Not here, not now. It’s hard enough to put two thoughts together with the way he chokes on his breath. He knows enough of death to know it comes for him, and he will soon be stuck in Námo’s Halls while his sons do his job for him.

Some might call his assault reckless. It was how he always works - bold, confident, unafraid. Every fear he ever had is buried so deep under the surface that it takes this to bring them bubbling out, one by one. All of this was to emerge as the conquering hero, to avenge his father by slaying his murderer and his mother by taking his undeniable place at the head of the Noldor, to create a land where elves would reign sovereign over their own fates and not fall beholden to others’ false sense of justice, to build a place where his sons and grandson could have the beautiful lives he envisioned on each of their faces when they were born.

Instead, he has found a land of a deeper darkness than he could ever imagine, beings of fire that put his spirit to shame, and he is no closer to the silmarils than he was when it was his father covered in blood thanks to his own - No. He cannot think that way. He did not take a sword to his father.

He did to his half-brother, his mind reminds him in a flash of memory. The same half-brother whose forces could have saved the day here like they did in Alqualondë. The same half-brother who now rules over the Noldor who he cast away...

Molten tears run through the ash on his face. When he looks at Nelyo, his bright eyes blur until they’re her eyes. He can’t tell if they’re Nerdanel’s or his mother’s, but they love him when they look down on him as his body is placed atop a small hill of rubble.

_I can't take up my musket  
And fight 'em down no more  
But I ain't a-goin' to love them  
Now that is certain sure_

His sons kneel in the dirt around him, their faces an incomprehensible wheel around him. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see that one face is missing. His fingers, sticky and red, shake in the hands of whichever son is holding them. Some wear gauntlets; others, he gets to feel the warm flesh of their hands. How many have they killed to get here? His innocent sons who he held as babes, warm and tender and completely innocent, how have they turned to this?

His thoughts are manic, but his words can barely form. He begs for something, anything, and hears his sons speak the Oath again. Now that it is his body on the ground, he sees the loopholes, the way the very words he loved all his life are working against him and will drive his sons to doom. He sees that if he, the greatest of the Noldor with the greatest wrong done against him, cannot even get near the silmarils, what will these words do to his sons?

They are so precious to him, so much more than anything else, how could he not see that until he has no time left? He years to blame something, anything, anyone but himself as his thoughts flit between Nolofinwë, who he might have sent the boats back for if he could trust him at all; the Valar, so mighty and powerful, who could destroy these Valaraukar with a flick of their fingers but chose to let him fight their battles; the judgment that had Finwë not attend the reconciliation feast and stuck him in Formenos to begin with - 

As he coughs up a bubbly froth of his own house’s color, he knows exactly where he places the blame.

Oh Eru, he has failed, he has failed and charged his sons with everything plus a father to avenge, he has shown his sons the same cruelty the world showed to him and the same lack of kindness in favoring the gems above them, and that can be no one’s fault but - 

Morgoth. It must be Morgoth. He thinks of his foe as a fireball burns through him and he chokes on it, gasping for air as he erupts into a column of flame, the pain rising to a crescendo and finally bursting as his part in the war is done.

His last thought is of Morgoth, his enemy. The enemy of all the Noldor, of all the elves and all the world alike. It has to be that way. He knows who is hated next.

_And I don't want no pardon  
For what I was and am_


End file.
